"Utley, Steven - The Despoblado" - читать интересную книгу автора (Utley Steven)

The Despoblado
by Steven Utley


Within the big gray ship's boat bay, they had simply driven the truck down a ramp onto the barge. On its bow, the barge's civilian owners, Walton & Wicket, had emblazoned the name Karen in gilt-edged script. Now, as Navy men lowered the rest of the cargo, the mate, a big, blocky man who was in fact the subordinate half of Walton & Wicket, secured it. Throughout, another man, about forty years old, of average size and trim-looking in a tropical suit, took particular interest in the treatment accorded the truck and several crates stenciled with various caveats; he stood watching with his hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket and occasionally issued an instruction which the mate blithely ignored. The third man aboard Karen, Walton himself, middle-aged, very spare of frame, very sparse and white of hair, watched from the pilothouse.

The mate suddenly paused halfway through the motion of manhandling a crate into position; his expression of intense concentration did not change, but his gaze became fixed on a point beyond the pilothouse. Walton turned and saw a woman standing on the lowest rung of the access ladder. She called out to him, "Permission to come aboard?"

Without thinking, momentarily incapable of doing so, Walton nodded assent, and she stepped down lightly onto the deck. There she paused and posed for his inspection. She wore canvas shorts, a faded blue work shirt, and scuffed hiking boots. A seabag rested against her slim leg, a professional's battered camera case swung against her opposite hip. Beneath a broad-brimmed hat pulled down tight over close-cropped hair, she had a full, round face, almost high-school-girlish in its unfinished prettiness. Her dark hair and eyes contrasted nicely with her fair skin. She sounded all of nineteen years old when she asked, "Are you Mister Walton?"

"Yes," he said slowly and after a moment more, "I am."

"My name's Michelle Kelly." She offered her right hand, which he automatically shook, then her left to present an envelope with his name written upon it. "I have a letter of introduction. Kevin Barnet recommended you very highly."

Walton said, "Ah," and grimaced, "Kevo," and peered upward expecting to see the man himself grinning down at him from the catwalk. He saw only the Navy men who had been loading cargo onto Karen; now they regarded the young woman with obvious and approving interest. Walton snatched the envelope from her. He split it open with his thumb and frowned as he read:


BudЧ
This is to introduce Michelle Kelly, another damn nature photographer, but she's bright, opinionated as only someone her age can be, and as you'll undoubtedly notice has a behind like a good fresh peach. She wants to have a look-see upriver, and you owe me a favor, so please take her away with you and return her in one piece.
Best, Kevo
Walton's frown etched itself deeper into his face. He sighed profoundly. "I'll just go have a word with Mister Barnet," he said.

"Oh, he's back at Stinktown."

Walton worked his frown into a full scowl. "Miz Kelly, as you can plainly see, this is not really an excursion boat. As for sightseeing, there's not much more to look at upriver than there is here. We are going into the despoblado. The unpeopled land. There're no electric lights, no showers, no mess tents, no amenities. And no handsome young Navy men."

Now she scowled. It should have made her look like a balked child but did not. Instead, hard angles revealed themselves within the creamy unblemished skin, and the lips, rather than distending into a pout, compressed into a firm straight line. "I'm not just sightseeing, I'm working. I'll pay for my passage, of course, and I've already signed a dozen waivers relieving everybody of responsibility for me." She nudged her seabag with the side of her foot. "I've got a gallon of sunscreen and my own food and everything else I'll need right here. I just want to hitch a ride. Sort of like Darwin."

"Darwin."

"On the Beagle."

"Darwin was invited to go along on that trip."

"Oh, let her come along, Walton." This was the man in the tropical suit, who stood leaning against one of his worrisome crates. He had sand-colored hair and a good profile, and he looked amused. He stepped forward and introduced himself as John Moen. He gave her a conspiratorial wink and said to Walton, "She doesn't look like she'll take up much space at all. Let her come."

Encouraged, she said, "I can even make myself useful if you need me to be. Swab the bo'sun, squeegee the fo'c'sle, whatever."

"A comedienne," Walton growled. "My insurance doesn't cover passengers who try to be helpfulЧor funny." He had no sooner spoken these words than he realized that he had ceased to scowl. He tried not to look abashed as he said, "But if you'll promise to behave yourself, come on, stow your gear below."

She stepped past him. Moen turned in place to watch as she went by, then gave Walton a look of astonished delight. Wicket looked at her and then turned quickly away as she passed.

"It'll be nice," Moen said to Walton, "to have someone to talk to on this beamy scow of yours." He inclined his head ever so slightly to indicate Wicket. "For a change."

"I should've asked her if she had a note from her mother."

"Oh, I dunno," Moen said easily, "that jilleroo is older than she looks."

The frown began to reassert itself on Walton's face. "If I were you," he snapped, "I'd make damn sure she's of legal age." He turned away from Moen and told Wicket to finish securing the cargo and called out for the lines to be cast off. Then he went to the wheel, and with a thrum of diesels the boat moved smoothly out of the bay and away from the ship.